‘What a question!’
‘I am sorry to have asked.’
‘Why should anyone want to hurt him? He was good enough at harming himself.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Everyone loved my husband, Canon Chambers. He was a charming man.’
Sidney finished his sherry. ‘I wish I had known him.’
He was about to make his excuses and leave when Hildegard Staunton continued. ‘Of course, you should also speak with his secretary.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘You have met Miss Morrison?’
‘I don’t think I have.’
‘She was at the funeral. She organised his life and knew everyone who saw my husband. She would be able to answer your question if you go to ask about the will. They spent all their time together at work. I sat in this house.’ Hildegard looked away as she said this.
On the mantelpiece Sidney could see another porcelain figurine, of a little girl feeding chickens.
Mädchen füttert Hühner
was inscribed in Old German at the base. He wondered who had given it to them, or if it had belonged to Hildegard’s family, bought when she was a child. There were so many questions he could not ask.
‘We could not have children,’ she said, as if in answer.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you or intrude,’ he said.
‘I do not know why I said that. I sometimes think people who live in England prefer their pets to their children. But I do not worry about that any more. I will try to come to your church. It was kind of you to take the funeral; you have a gentle face.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sidney, ‘if that is true.’
‘Come again,’ Hildegard offered, ‘after you have visited Miss Morrison. If you see her then perhaps she will tell you more.’
Hildegard Staunton held out her hand and Sidney took it. Her grasp was firm and she looked at her guest with a gaze that did not falter. ‘Thank you for coming. Please visit me again.’
‘It would be my privilege.’
Sidney walked back to church and felt unutterably sad. Something was very wrong. He thought of a field in a foreign country, a summer’s evening, white wine and apple trees, an Irish boy and his German sweetheart at the beginning of their adventure together and a man singing:
‘From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I’ve seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.’
They had once had all of their lives before them.
The offices of Morton Staunton Solicitors were located on the ground floor of a single-storey building that abutted the yellow brick loggia of Cambridge Railway Station. To the left lay a waiting room and Miss Morrison’s office. To the right lay the rooms of the two partners, Clive Morton and Stephen Staunton.
On arrival, Sidney was somewhat surprised by the appearance of the victim’s secretary. He could not remember seeing her at the funeral and was now guilty of a presumption. He had been expecting a cliché: a woman in a green tweed skirt with her hair pinned into a neat bun; someone who had been educated at Girton and now lived with her mother and a couple of cats. What he discovered instead was an elegant and petite woman in her late thirties with swift eyes and finely angled features. She was dressed entirely in black and white and wore silver jewellery that matched her elegantly styled grey hair.
‘Miss Morrison . . . I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘I scurried away after the service, I am afraid. It was all too upsetting as I am sure you must appreciate.’
‘I can imagine,’ Sidney began, already regretting the fact that he had come.
What was he doing getting involved in all this? he thought to himself. As an ordinand he had imagined the tranquil lifestyle of a quiet country parson, but now here he was, poking his nose into other people’s business, involving himself in matters in which he was plainly out of his depth. He had to concentrate on the official reason for his visit: the acquisition of Stephen Staunton’s will.
‘I hope I am not calling at an inconvenient time?’ he asked.
‘There is still so much tidying up to be done. But my job is half of what it used to be and I am not sure whether we will be getting another partner . . .’
Sidney looked down at Miss Morrison’s desk, with its papers scattered beside a well-used typewriter. A bag of lemon drops rested on top of what appeared to be a thick Russian novel.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked
‘I have come on behalf of Mrs Staunton,’ Sidney began. So far this was, approximately, true. ‘As you can imagine, she is not feeling particularly strong at the moment. I offered to enquire as to whether her husband had left a will.’
‘I have thought about this, Canon Chambers, and it is an odd thing. He did not. Like many solicitors they may be good at drawing up instructions for other people but they are absent-minded when looking after themselves.’
‘And Mr Staunton needed a bit of looking after?’
‘My employer was not the most methodical of people.’
‘But you kept his diary, managed his appointments, that kind of thing?’
‘Of course.’
‘You organised his life?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He liked to be mysterious at times.’
‘I suppose most people like to have an area of their life that is private. I know I do myself.’
Miss Morrison began to explain. ‘Mr Staunton kept his own pocket diary and so if people spoke directly with him then he would write it down there and it often led to confusion. If he made arrangements in the evenings, for example, and then didn’t tell me the next morning, we would have a number of double bookings; but, in general, we rubbed along very well.’
‘So he didn’t always tell you everything?’
‘He liked his privacy. And he did not want to be pinned down by too many appointments.’
Sidney found the matter-of-fact tone unconvincing. ‘I am sorry to have to ask this, Miss Morrison, but was your employer a difficult man?’
‘He wasn’t easy but when you’ve been with someone for so long you get used to their ways.’
Sidney was about to ask a leading question about the state of Stephen Staunton’s mind at the time of his death but a train steamed past so loudly that it shook the windows. ‘Good Heavens,’ he said.
‘It’s only the express that makes that much noise. They’re every two hours so it isn’t too bad. You get used to it.’
Sidney had planned to return to what he hoped was a subtle interrogation when Clive Morton looked in. He was a tall man with greying blond hair that was swept back, lotioned and in need of a cut. Dressed in a blue blazer with grey flannel trousers, a white Oxford shirt and a Savage Club tie, he clearly saw himself as the public face of his firm.
‘Canon Chambers,’ he began. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you since the funeral? I trust my secretary has been catering for your every need.’
Miss Morrison interrupted. ‘He was asking about a will.’
The solicitor appeared surprised. ‘I didn’t know that was your department?’
‘On behalf of Mrs Staunton . . .’
Clive Morton already appeared to suspect Sidney’s motives for coming. ‘I see.’
This was the man that Pamela Morton had wanted to leave. Sidney felt uncomfortable with the knowledge. ‘I was just passing when . . .’
‘He was not that fond of paperwork, our Stephen. He could be rather slapdash. Don’t think he bothered about a will. He didn’t even have the courtesy to leave a note explaining why he had done such a dreadful thing. Poor Mrs Hughes . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Our cleaner. She found him.’
‘So there was definitely no explanation for what he did?’
‘There’s not much need to explain something that dramatic. He downed enough whisky to give him the courage and off he went.’
‘Had you been partners for long?’
‘Just coming up to five years. We read law at Trinity and got back in touch after the war.’
‘So you were friends?’
‘Most of the time. We did have the odd contretemps but nothing too serious. Although it has to be said that Stephen could be bloody moody. The charming Ulsterman who drinks too much and then tells you it’s all hopeless; you know the type . . .’
Clive Morton’s presence dominated the room. Miss Morrison gave a little nod and left. She seemed upset. ‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’
Sidney pressed on. ‘Did he have a temper?’
‘Oh, he had a temper all right. I remember I once remarked that it was rather amusing that a man with a German wife should have to initial all his paperwork “SS”. He went berserk!’
‘I can imagine that he would.’
‘Never one to take a joke, our Stephen.’ Clive Morton moved towards the drinks table and began to open a bottle of sherry. ‘Would you like a drink, Canon Chambers? It’s nearly lunchtime and it’s been sticky round here recently, as you can imagine.’
‘I shouldn’t . . .’
‘Go on . . .’
‘A small whisky perhaps.’
‘Oh,’ Clive Morton paused. ‘I had you down as a sherry man.’
‘Most people do . . . but I’d prefer whisky if that’s possible.’
‘How do you have it?
‘Neat, please, from the decanter.’
‘Stephen was very partial to the whiskey; the one spelled with an “e”. I’m more of a gin and tonic man. I’m sure Miss Morrison will bring in some ice. She knows I need a bit of fortification before lunch.’
Sidney took a sip of the whisky that had been poured from the decanter. It tasted exactly as it did at home. ‘Is this from Stephen Staunton’s supply?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Miss Morrison stocks the cupboard. We normally offer a gin or a sherry. If a client is particularly upset we do have some medicinal brandy. Stephen, however, stuck to his whiskey.’
Sidney was no aficionado but he had spent enough time with his friends in the Ulster Rifles to recognise that he was not experiencing Stephen Staunton’s favourite blended whiskey. There was no smoky aroma, no fruity sweetness redolent of vanilla and bitter toffee. In short, it was not Bushmills.
‘Of course, Stephen used to drink far too much,’ Clive Morton continued. ‘And it always gets to you in the end. I’ve seen it in so many friends, especially those who couldn’t settle down after the war. They come home and can’t explain what they’ve been through. So they drink to cheer up, the alcohol depresses them, and then they drink even more to get through the depression. Did you fight yourself, Canon Chambers, or were you a padre?’
‘I fought, Mr Morton. With the Scots Guards . . .’ The reply was more insistent than he had intended but Sidney did not intend to be patronised.
‘Good for you!’ his host continued.
Sidney remembered bayonet practice on the Meadows, running into sandbags and being told how important it was to hate his enemy. He had never been much good at that but he guessed that he had seen more of death than Clive Morton.
‘Is this all that’s left?’ he asked. ‘In this decanter?’
‘Why? Do you want another?’ His host laughed.
Sidney remembered Hildegard Staunton’s words. ‘You cannot get Bushmills in Cambridge and he wouldn’t drink anything else.’ ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘This is quite enough.’
There was a pause. Sidney knew that he should leave but thought that if he let the silence hold a little longer then Clive Morton might say more.
‘Do you think Mr Staunton’s affairs will be complicated to settle?’ Sidney asked, and then felt compromised and guilty about using the word ‘affair’ in the presence of Pamela Morton’s husband. He wondered if his wife’s adultery had been a form of secret revenge.
‘Lawyers are a bit like doctors, Canon Chambers. We neglect our own lives, perhaps because we think we are immortal. An occupational hazard.’
‘But in Stephen Staunton’s case . . .’
‘Well, I suppose it was inevitable . . .’ Clive Morton continued.
‘You think so?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Clive Morton continued. ‘I liked the man. We used to be close but, as I’ve implied, he had become much more distant of late: remote and moody to boot. And you can’t work with a partner who is half-cut after lunch.’
‘I wonder if Miss Morrison may have had to cover up for him?’
‘Well spotted, Canon Chambers. It was getting ridiculous. I told Stephen I was prepared to turn a blind eye in the evenings but you can’t employ a man who can get drunk twice in a day.’
‘It was as bad as that?’
‘Sometimes. I’m not saying he was an alcoholic. It’s that his mind wasn’t on the case in hand. I had to warn him, of course.’
‘That he might lose his job?’
‘Yes. Even though we were partners something had to be done.’
‘And he knew this?’
‘Of course he knew it. I was the one that told him.’
‘And do you think the idea of losing everything might have made him despair?’
‘I am not going to feel responsible for Stephen’s death if that is what you are getting at, Canon Chambers. He had plenty of opportunities to sort his life out. I won’t pretend it was easy but I always dealt with him fairly – no matter how many times he went to London or disappeared without telling anyone. At least Miss Morrison kept tabs on him. She could always be relied upon to finish off the paperwork and let us know where he was in the event of an emergency. He didn’t seem to have any problems with her. It was the rest of the business that suffered from his rather cavalier approach. But, if you’ll excuse me, it’s my golfing afternoon.’